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Portage Park Public Library is a small, slightly decrepit brick building, surrounded by linden trees and a hummingbird-friendly flower garden, slightly trodden upon, with painted rocks scattered this way and that. Last week’s chalk drawings were still on the pavement, as the weather had been dry over the weekend. Phil thought he should probably clean that up, but immediately dismissed the idea. He was far too fond of the doodles. There was a lion one he liked in particular. He’d been very sad when someone had stepped on it.
Mondays were tightly scheduled at the library. Phil liked it that way, the bustle of staying busy felt nice. The elementary school sent their third graders over for Reading Room at ten to noon. Toddler hour was at twelve thirty. Arts and crafts at two. Teen study hall at three. So by the time that slim half hour for lunch rolled around, Phil was wrapped up trying to resolve an argument over who got to use the computer, with a grumpy teacher hovering over him, trying to get everyone wrangled back to class. And after that three more kids wanted to check out books, and Phil’s just finished putting all of them through when a tall, gangly figure stumbled through the front sliding doors and nearly tripped over the edge carpet.
He had a large, stuffed bookbag, and was holding a stack of worse-for-wear folders under one arm. His curly hair was going everywhere, and his jeans were falling down, exposing a strip of what Phil was pretty sure was Sonic-patterned underwear.
“Hi,” he panted–-to Phil? Oh god, to Phil. He’d been staring .
“Yeah,” Phil said, very intelligently.
“I uh,” Curly dumped his stack of folders on Phil’s counter, knocking his barcode scanner out of its cradle. “Conference room booked, I think. For noon. Sorry I’m late.”
He had a pink flush high starting on his cheekbones. Phil dutifully opened the room reservation portal and scrolled through it. “I don’t see anything in here for noon,” he said, regretfully. “What’s the name?”
“Dan Howell. Or it might be under Portage Language Learners, that’s the tutoring service, I don’t remember how I put it in. It’s for the ESL tutoring service.”
Phil hums, though he stopped listening. There is no booking for the conference room. “It looks like it didn’t go through,” he said generously.
Dan had a look on his face like he might cry, which was something Phil saw a lot of in his line of work, though not usually from the adults. It’s not really all that different between kids and grown-ups though, in his opinion. This, at least, is something he’s equipped to handle. “The room is open though, I can just put you in now and check you in,” he suggested.
“Christ,” Dan rubbed his eyes. “That would be brilliant. God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s no trouble,” Phil says, and gave him a smile. He could have been imagining it, but that little patch of pink on his cheek looked even darker. His skin seemed soft. Phil wondered if he moisturized.
He cleared his throat and clicked through the booking form. “Okay, you’re sorted,” he said. “You’ve got the room for two hours. Behind me to your left.”
“Oh my God, I could kiss you,” Dan groaned. “Thank you. Seriously.” And he grabbed up his stack of folders and practically sprinted to the back of the library.
Phil watched him go, feeling slack-jawed. By the time he recovered, a small child of about eight or nine was waiting for him at his counter, staring at him judgmentally.
“Yes?” Phil said.
“Kissing gives you cooties,” the kid said, like they thought they were being helpful.
Phil sighed to himself. “I don’t think that’s true, love. Do you have a question?”
The kid shook their head and passed him a stack of Animorphs books. Phil checked them out without further comment.
After the third graders had cleared out, Phil took out his lunch (peanut butter and banana sandwich, bag of limited edition anniversary haribo, cherry soda), and sat back behind the counter to eat it. This was unrelated to the fact that from this seat, he could see through the diamond-gridded window of the conference room, where Dan Howell was sat across from three kids, maybe middle schoolers, pointing animatedly to something in one of the textbooks spread out between them as they scratched answers into their worksheets. Phil noticed a few things he’d passed over before; Dan had a single gold hoop in one ear, which really suited him. His hands were large and seemed gentle. This, it occurred to Phil, was kind of an insane thing to think about a stranger.
As luck would have it, Dan looked up right then, and their eyes met for a brief second before Phil looked away, his cheeks hot. It was rude to stare, he reminded himself.
They stayed in the conference room far past the two hour limit, but it didn’t even cross Phil’s mind to go and kick them out. Around three thirty, they finally packed up, and Phil may have made an excuse to step away from the study hall for a minute and pretend to look busy behind the desk. In any case, Dan came up to him once the kids had been bundled out the door and he had this little smile on his face.
“You did me a real solid,” he said, squinting at Phil’s name tag. “Phil?”
“Yeah.” Phil cleared his throat. Slightly too long of a beat passed without either of them saying anything.
“I’m sorry for being rude earlier,” Dan said in a rush. “I was a bit harried, I didn’t really think before I spoke.”
“Er, what?”
“The uh–” Dan stammered. “The kissing thing. Awfully forward thing to say to a stranger.”
They stared at each other briefly. Dan had an increasingly pained look in his eyes, like, help me, oh god, and Phil felt equal parts amused and sympathetic. “Oh, that’s well fine,” he said. “You didn’t offend me.”
He looks Dan up and down in a way that he hopes is at least somewhat obvious. Tight jeans, weird shoes, hoodie. That gold hoop earring. If there was a God, Phil thought, there must be some chance this guy was gay.
“D’you want to get coffee?” He says, before he can chicken out, and winces at his own nerve.
Dan’s mouth falls open. “Do I– what?”
“Nevermind, sorry, I–”
“Bloody hell, yes? Did you just ask me out? I’m sorry. Yes. I would love to get coffee. As in– is that what you meant?”
“Well, yeah,” Phil was certain you could fry an egg on his face. He was sweating in his armpits.
“When do you get off work?” Dan was asking.
“Six?” Phil said.
“Are you sure?” Dan said, and he was smiling.
Phil was disgruntled. “Yes, six.”
“Sorry, it’s just. That was cute.”
Phil lost his words entirely. Dan looked at his phone. “I was gonna hang around the area anyway– place on the corner? Emma’s? At six thirty?”
“Yeah, okay”
At six pm sharp, Phil locks the library doors behind him fumblingly, straightens his hair helplessly, and walks down to the corner. For the second time that day, he sees Dan through the window. They’re both early. He opens the door.